


untitled

by phyripo



Series: plotless [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Languages and Linguistics, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 04:19:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5192069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phyripo/pseuds/phyripo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A musing about the languages nations might use, as seen through Lithuania's eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	untitled

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the Kink Meme. Translations should appear when you hover over the words, but there's also a list at the end.
> 
> And I know that Hima said at some point that nations have a nation-specific language that they all speak, but really, where's the fun in that? (Moreover, I really don't get how that would work. There would be so many influences on that language, unless of course it was an artificial or _magical_ language, but it seems more likely to me that it would be some sort of pidgin that developed over time, and that would be a huge mess. I don't know, I'm probably putting too much thought into this.) But anyway, I'm ignoring that comment completely.
> 
> I _love_ linguistics, you have no idea.

He’s the only one who remembers Old Prussian.

There’s something ironic about that, Lithuania thinks. Prussia’s still got that accent, the one that makes it clear to Germans that he’s not born-and-bred German, but the language? Of course, he didn’t speak it for long, considering he wasn’t the original Prussia, but rather the Teutonic Order, but one would expect him to remember something.

More than six centuries is a long time, though, and Lithuania has a theory about how Prussia’s non-nation status has affected his enhanced memory, but all that aside – Lithuania’s the only one who remembers Old Prussian, but he never has opportunity to speak it, nor does he really want to. He sometimes thinks he might step up and help his linguists with the reconstruction of the language, but it would be hard to explain the source of his knowledge.

He knows this is a thing many of the nations think about, especially in peaceful times like these. There are a lot of things pertaining to history they could and want to help with, but combining that with their hidden existence is very hard. They’re lucky if they have a curious boss.

Lithuania listens to Germany droning on in French – the language the EU nations use when England isn’t there – about the economic impact of Greece’s new government’s plans. It’s impressive how Germany has picked up a lot of major languages while he’s still so young. In addition, he’s good at keeping up with modern slang. Lithuania, who learned most of his English through his time with America in the twenties of last century, has been known to use outdated expressions in his use of the language. He once told America he was wearing ‘glad rags’, and the nation had almost fallen over laughing. After the fall of the Soviet Union, Lithuania had also had to learn that no one called women ‘dames’ anymore – which is a shame, in his opinion – and America was not a ‘big cheese’. Even nowadays, he still says weird things sometimes.

Language change is fascinating, and he’s saying that as the nation with one of the most archaic languages in Europe.

Germany finishes his presentation. The nations don’t need to do anything about Greece, as such, their governments will do that, but they still need to be updated on matters.

Everyone starts leaving the room, and Finland catches up with Lithuania at the door.

“Tere,” he says, smiling broadly.

“Tere,” Lithuania returns. He usually speaks Estonian with Finland, which may seem strange to outsiders, but it had been a neutral option for them for many years, and hadn’t been too hard to learn for both of them – with Finland speaking a Finnic language as well and Lithuania’s people generally being in intensive contact with Estonia’s. It’s always easier to learn a language your people have contact with. Besides, Estonia is absolutely delighted that they have continued speaking his language long after it became superfluous from a neutrality perspective, and they both like Estonia, so that’s nice.

“Do you want to get lunch together?” Finland asks. “It’s been a while.”

“Muidugi.”

—

They’re in Brussels, of course, and Lithuania is thinking about languages now, so he spends some time being fascinated by the different languages being spoken in the Quartier Léopold as he and Finland walk from the European Parliament towards the center of the city, where they know they can find some nice cafés.

“Toris!” a voice calls out behind Lithuania, and he turns around at the mention of his human name to find Belgium waving at him. He waves back, slowing down. She catches up with him and Finland and says, “Lãbas!” Then she holds something out to Lithuania.

“Kàs taĩ yrà?” he asks.

“Taĩ yrà knygà,” she laughs, textbook Lithuanian, and continues in English. “I think you forgot it.”

He takes the book from her to inspect it. The he shakes his head. “This is not mine,” he says, also in English. He really appreciates Belgium speaking his language, because he knows how hard it can be to learn – Poland was the ultimate proof, but then again, Poland is a real lollygagger – but English must be easier for her. Belgium knows an astounding amount of languages. Maybe that’s not surprising. She and her brother sailed the whole world once upon a time, and she has belonged to many different nations— People probably don’t say lollygagger anymore, do they?

“Oh!” Belgium says. “I’m sorry! I thought, because it’s in Lithuanian… Do you know who it belongs to, then? Or you, Tino?”

Lithuania shakes his head in apology. “Sorry.”

Finland shrugs. “No idea. There aren’t many nations who speak Lithuanian, though.”

“Maybe it belongs to a human.” She purses her red lips. “I’ll just leave it with lost and found. Thanks anyway!”

“Prašau,” Lithuania says, and she winks at him, which makes him blush a little.

“Iki pasimãtymo, Toris! Bye, Tino!”

”Bye, Manon,” they chorus. Lithuania looks after the nation in amused wonder as she rushes back to the Parliament building. Belgium has always been so bright. It’s admirable. But he guesses it’s either you cling on to the good stuff or you lose your mind, when you’re like them. There’s a fine line between those things.

—

Lithuania remembers how difficult it was to communicate back when the world didn’t seem so small yet. While nations have an innate knack for finding each other when they end up on someone else’s territories, they don’t, unfortunately, magically know a shared language. They speak the language of their people – especially during those times they did. Lithuania had it easier than some of the other nations. Lithuanian is an awful lot like the shared ancestor of nearly all European languages, and Lithuania has always liked listening and learning things. The combination of those two things has made it easier for him to learn more languages – Indo-European ones, that is – than, say, Hungary. He likes to think he’s pretty intelligent.

What it comes down to, most of the time, is developing a language that’s sort of halfway between the two nations’ who have met, until one or both of them have learned the other’s language. Nations do all share a better memory than humans, so it’s never as hard for them as it is for their people.

Finland, sitting across from him, orders lunch for both of them in barely-accented French. Lithuania suddenly wonders how many languages his friend knows.

“Hey, Fin, I was wondering,” he says, when the waiter has gone, and Finland looks up at him. “How many languages do you speak, you think?”

Finland leans back in his seat, expression thoughtful. He never says anything to confirm he’s heard a question, which Lithuania knows weirds humans out sometimes, but most of the nations have gotten used to it by now. Australia used to do the same thing, but England colonized it right out of him.

“I have no idea,” Finland answers after a while. “Quite some. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. Just thinking about languages, I guess. Do you think you know more or fewer than I do?”

“Shall we have a competition?” His eyes crinkle up in laughter; he silently counts on his fingers, then says, “I’ve got seventeen. And older forms of a lot of those languages. I’d guess we’re pretty even. Neither of us has had any colonies, and we’re in almost the same area.”

Lithuania has no idea how many languages he knows. He puts his hands up to start counting. Let’s see, he knows Lithuanian, Latvian, Estonian, Russian, Swedish, Danish, German, Polish, Belorussian, Ukrainian, English, French, Spanish, Old Prussian, Latin, Czech, and – he doesn’t think his Romanian is so up-to-date as to count as him speaking it, but he’ll count it anyway, for the sake of getting even with Finland. He doesn’t even really remember why he ever learned Romanian.

“I have seventeen as well,” he announces, just as the waiter returns with their lunch. Finland nods, and they begin eating.

For humans, knowing seventeen languages would be an unbelievable amount, but it’s not that uncommon, among nations. The two of them are somewhere in the middle, Lithuania reckons. They’re relatively small countries, have never had colonies whose languages they’ve had to learn, but they have been part of different countries themselves, and that usually involves adopting a new language. No one told Poland that, Lithuania thinks, nowadays more wryly amused than bitter about Poland not bothering to learn Lithuanian for several centuries.

Nations with lots of different indigenous groups know the most languages, of course, but some European nations have picked up a lot along the way, especially the colonial powers. The treatment of colonies’ languages differed, though. France usually stuck to French, from what Lithuania heard. Netherlands, on the other hand, tried to learn an indigenous language more often. He probably thought it would help trade – which had been the reason he’d learned Polish at the time of the Baltic Sea trading. Poland had been very surprised.

It had been horribly old-fashioned Polish, and they had never found out where he managed to find a teacher who spoke it that way, but at least he’d tried.

“Italian!” Finland says suddenly. Lithuania snaps out of his thoughts to glance up at him, and promptly snorts. The nation has a leaf of lettuce half hanging out of his mouth, and his expression is bordering on manic.

“What about Italian?”

“I’ve been learning Italian,” Finland explains, simultaneously trying to get the lettuce into his mouth. “Thought it’d –  _fuck_ – be useful. Maybe I should have chosen Spanish, now that I think about it. Or I could have joined Iceland in his Cantonese lessons.”

“Cantonese lessons?” How interesting.

“Hong Kong’s teaching him.” The Finn tilts his head. “On second thought – I don’t think I want to join.”

Lithuania chuckles and eats his sandwich.

* * *

“Did you know,” Estonia starts, and Lithuania raises his eyebrows in anticipation of another useless factoid, “that the Virginia opossum has thirteen nipples?”

Lithuania is not sure how to react to this revelation.

“Must be a witch,” Finland says, somewhere behind them.

“Burn the witch!” Latvia squeaks in an even higher voice than usual, and Finland starts laughing.

Lithuania thinks sometimes he’s the only sane nation by the Baltic Sea.

They’re waiting in the hall of the European Parliament for another meeting, the four of them, damp and huddled in a corner, out of the draught. It started raining on the way from the hotel, and they only had one umbrella among them – Latvia’s – so while they’re not  _drenched_ , dry isn’t the right word either. Lithuania is not looking forward to sitting through a few hours of meetings like this. There are a few other nations scattered around the hall.

A large dark shadow appears in the door, and Lithuania feels a rush of cold air on his back when Finland starts waving enthusiastically. Sweden, then.

The day he first met Sweden is still clear in his mind’s eye. He had seemed so frightening, and his _language_ – Lithuania had heard Scandinavian languages spoken before, of course, but Sweden, with his deep voice, added a whole new dimension to the lilting tones. It does fit Sweden somehow. Apart from the fact that it’s his own language – something in Swedish fits with him. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Lithuania isn’t sure. He doesn’t know if Lithuanian particularly fits with him, though he likes to think it does.

“Mornin’,” the man in question greets. He takes his glasses off to wipe the raindrops away.

They all return the greeting, switching from Estonian to English without conscious thought.

A little while later, France joins them, and they all switch to French. Some part of Lithuania thinks it’s stupid, all this switching. Wouldn’t they be better off if they invented a language among themselves? A nation-only language, that they could teach to new nations and use to communicate everything? Then again, never being able to speak your own native language – inasmuch as any language could be considered a nation’s native – would have disadvantages.

Oh well. He’s just glad they could relieve Belgium and Switzerland of their translator duties last century, because they disagreed more often than they translated things the same way, and multiple meetings had ended with the two of them arguing in German about the exact meaning of what France had just said. No one Lithuania knows well has ever found out how they got France to learn German. He imagines it was a painstaking progress.

North and South Italy enter the hall in a haphazard whirlwind of cold air, which must mean that the meeting should have started a while ago. France turns to them and says something in a language Lithuania vaguely recognizes as an older form of French. Romano doesn’t reply, but Veneziano laughs and says something back.

Halting Japanese drifts over from another corner – Greece is on the phone, his face concentrated.

German from by the door – Belgium, Netherlands, Germany and Prussia have arrived, squabbling over something or the other.

Estonian at his back again, mixing with amused Swedish – Finland’s attempting to tell a story about something he dreamed last night.

Then Polish, followed by Lithuanian, Russian, and eventually English – Lithuania turns to the left to face Poland.

“Hey,” he says, and the Pole nods in greeting.

“Liet,” he starts, the only concession to Lithuania’s language he was willing to make for a long time, “do you know a way I can get Romania to stop practicing his magic in hotel rooms? It’s kept me up, like, all night.”

Lithuania glances over at Romania, who looks impatient and sleepy, then at Bulgaria, who looks bashful and sleepy.

“Are you sure it was magic?”

Poland smirks. “I’m not stupid. He was chanting and stuff, and it was all in Latin. I know he always speaks Bulgarian when—”

“Let’s not— Let’s not get into that.”  _Never_. “Maybe just tell him. Romania’s okay. I’m sure he’ll listen.”

“Hm,” Poland says, and then he turns to Latvia to tell him about Romania’s escapades.

Lithuania thinks he’s going to brush up on that Romanian when he gets home.

**Author's Note:**

> Now for translations.  
> Tere - Hello; Estonian  
> Muidugi - Of course, Estonian  
> Lãbas - Hello; Lithuanian (the accents are not normally written, but I have to practice, so)  
> Kàs taĩ yrà? - What is that?; Lithuanian  
> Taĩ yrà knygà - That is a book; Lithuanian  
> Prašau - You’re welcome; Lithuanian  
> Iki pasimãtymo - So long; Lithuanian  
> Also a lollygagger is an idle or lazy person. If you were wondering. And a big cheese is an important person.


End file.
